Marshall Ramsey

A great attitude is like bacon. It makes everything better.  The trick is, how do you get through at day when your attitude isn’t as good as it should be? The secret lies with those who surround you. 

Mine has been, well, not as great as it could be.  I guess that is normal — you can’t be “on” all the time.  If we had to rely on whether or not we “wanted” to work out, we’d probably quit after a few weeks.  But we keep at it because it becomes habit.

Habit has definitely kicked in this week.

That said, a great attitude helps you get the most out of whatever you are doing. Paul Lacoste’s Boot Camp is no exception. You go into it with a great attitude, you will see amazing results. Bad attitude? You will suffer the whole 12 weeks.

I came into today worried about my Achilles tendon. (Now that will cause a bad attitude.)  I stretched it and stretched it some more. I was loaded up on ibuprofen and had iced it the previous evening. I warmed up with a 1/2 miles of running and stretched it come more.  We did warm-stretches and then went into the weight room to work on shoulders (my shoulders are my weakest muscle group, so I am always thankful for shoulder day!). From there we did shuffle/sprint/shuffle drills. Not Achilles tendon friendly. Then we did ladder drills. Not Achilles tendon friendly. Then we carried a 25 lb. weight around a box 1/4 the size of the football field. Definitely not Achilles tendon friendly. We finally wrapped it up with three wall stands (on our hands with a push-up) and up-hill sprints. Not sure that was Achilles tendon friendly, either — but that point, I had given up worrying about it. I just did the work.

Tendon held up fine. It was sore and probably cost me a step. I’ll ice it again tonight. I’ll also ice my attitude. I want it to get better, too.

Surround yourself with good people.  Because you will have bad days when you are pushing through on habit alone.  And on those days, if you have good friends, you will soar even when your attitude isn’t where it’s not supposed to be. I am discovering my new line, Line 2, is full of not only talented athletes, but solid people as well. I have been picked up and encouraged the last three weeks.  That’s the secret of life.  You can’t do challenges alone.  Especially with a bad attitude.

Because it isn’t Achilles tendon friendly.

The Angel of Death doesn’t actually do her own killing. She hires hit men, mercenaries if you will, to do her dirty work. These are people who’ll trade a little bit of their souls for more time on this Earth.  Today’s killer was chosen to take out Fredrick Simms II, an investment banker and all around jerk.  Aged 45, Fredrick was on his second divorce and had screwed over more people than WorldCom and Enron combined. The Angel of Death admired his ruthlessness. But he had to go.  It was just his time.

Three-time con Barry McReady was assigned the job of eliminating Fredrick. The Angel of Death laid out the plan: Barry would meet Fredrick (who was on a business trip to New Orleans) on the corner of Conti and Bourbon Streets in the French Quarter. Barry would approach Fredrick and ask for money. Then when Fredrick refused, Barry would shoot him in the stomach with a .22 snub-nosed revolver. Fredrick would bleed-out in front of total strangers and Barry would run away.

At least that is how it was supposed to happen.

But Barry had been in a loser his whole life. And on the night of his biggest job ever, he messed that up, too. The gun went off, sending Fredrick to the ground. But the gun-shot wound was too far to the right, making it, at best, superficial. Sure, Fredrick bled. But not enough to kill him. Barry looked down at the man he thought he killed and ran.

But Barry didn’t see the police car responding to the gunshot.  The Ford Crown Victoria hit the running shooter and Barry’s head his the pavement. He was killed instantly.

Fredrick’s consciousness faded as he cheated death and slipped into a coma.

The Angel of Death doesn’t tolerate failure. And because of it, Barry paid with his life and soul. She looked down at Fredrick’s body on the ground. To make up for the screw up, Fredrick was rewarded with a second chance.  The Angel of Death wiped Barry’s memory and slate clean.

Fredrick’s memory would come back in bits and pieces — but only the good parts. The dark side of Fredrick Simms died that night in the French Quarter.  By the time he left Charity Hospital, Fredrick as a new man who had to fit back into his old world.

It wouldn’t go well.

“What’s wrong with him?” one of his partners asked.

“I don’t know. He seems, so, well you know, nice.”

“That gun shot wound took his edge. We can’t have that kind of cancer around here.”

The firm of Ruthless, Ruthless and Simms soon lost one of its founding partners.  Within four months, Fredrick given a huge severance package and sent into a new life.

That night, surrounded by cardboard packing boxes, Fredrick looked where he could move. He wanted to start a new life in a new place. A place where he could start a new old life. Fredrick got on his laptop and booked a one-way flight to Mobile, Alabama.

He was going home.

Fredrick had graduated form the Mitchell College of Business at the University of Business in 1991. Talented enough to go Harvard, he did just that for grad school. He went on to earn his MBA and moved back home to make his fortune. He worked ungodly hours in a skyscraper overlooking the Mobile River shipyards.  While on a weekend trip to Orange Beach, he met a young girl working in one of the souvenir shops.  Her name was Stacy Duval and she whitest smile and tannest skin.  After two weeks, they had gotten married and lived in Fredrick’s small bungalow near Fairhope.  If passion gave off electricity, they could have lit downtown Mobile for 50 years.

But Fredrick’s dark side soon revealed itself.  His ego was too big for one woman, even if she was perfect.  Stacy left Fredrick and divorced him soon afterward. Fredrick left for New York. The rest is, as they say, misery.

Now a decade later, Fredrick would win her back.  But proving you’re not a monster is easier said than done.  He went back home in search of the first love of his life.

Stacy had remarried a year after her divorce from Fredrick to an Sergeant Stan Hughes, U.S. Army. They had a daughter named Julia after his first tour of duty in Afghanistan. But soon he was gone again. And again. And again. Three months into his third tour, the Angel of Death used the Taliban to take Stan from this world.  Stacy was now a widow, divorcee and a single mom. She vowed on Stan’s casket that she would raise their daughter well.

She watched on that muggy July morning as his casket dropped down into the ground. And her heart went into the ground with it. “I’ll never love anyone again — well, other than Julia.”  Stacy’s heart grew cold.

The Angel of Death watched all of this and for one of the first times ever, felt guilty.  She would intervened once again.

Tourist traffic choked the idyllic streets of Fairhope.  Summer was the busy season for Gulf Coast Tours and Clarence the driver cursed he tried to navigate his tour bus through the glut of cars. He felt pressure in his chest. He felt weird, almost odd.  Sweat beaded his forehead and pain shot up his left arm.  It was his time to go.

And the Angel of Death was handling this one personally.

The driverless bus creamed through the intersection, aiming right for Stacy and Julia in the crosswalk.

But before it could hit them, a man ran from the curb and pushed them out of the way onto the ground.

The bus creamed into a building, and tipped perilously.  The man who pushed Stacy and Julia out of the way then got up and ran over to the bus to help rescue the passengers. He grabbed an extinguisher and put out a small fire.  Other than Clarence the bus driver, there were no other  fatalities. The Mobile Press-Register would profile the hero in Sunday’s paper. His name was Fredrick Simms. And he was just in the right place at the right time.

Stacy looked at her rescue with complete disbelief.

“Fredrick, is that you?”

She brushed sand and gravel out of her bloody knee. Tears welled in her eyes. She then started talking to herself.

“It can’t be Fredrick. He would have run the other way.”

Fredrick tenderly felt the burns on his hands. He looked at his ex-wife and the little girl with her. Tears started to swell in his eyes, too.

“Stacy? Stacy is that you?”

“You saved us.”

“You saved me.” Fredrick looked at her. “I have missed you.”

Stacy felt the pain from so many years ago stab at her heart. She started to back away.

“NO! No! I am a changed man. Promise!” Fredrick stopped and raised his shirt. A grotesque scar showed where the bullet had killed evil Fredrick.

Stacy looked at the red scar and said, “You need to get your hands looked at.”

Fredrick looked at them. They were bright red and burned. But he couldn’t feel any pain. His heart beat wildly.

“Nah. I’m alright. Can I buy your beautiful daughter an ice cream cone? It’s been a tough afternoon. Maybe even one for you?”

Julia looked at this man she once knew. Something was different about him.  Something special. He now had a glow of goodness about him.

All three of them walked through the police and crowd to get ice cream. And into a new life together.

The Angel of Death smiled. It was the first time she had ever played matchmaker. It would also be the last. Yes, she would successfully come for Fredrick Simms again — just not for another 50 years.

When I travel to speeches, I always chose the fastest and most direct route. That’s because I’m usually late, burning time and flying like a bat out of a Justin Bieber concert. But not this particular morning.  I was driving to Natchez, Mississippi, the beautiful Southern town perched on the bluff of the Mississippi River.  And for once, I had the time to enjoy the trip. The crisp, cobalt blue sky stretched across the horizon, kissing the trees. The previous night’s storms had rinsed the pollen out of the air and left the world cleansed. The colors were absolutely vivid.  New leaves cloaked the world with a blanket of  bright green leaves.

I had taken the long way.

And by the long way, I mean the Natchez Trace Parkway. The Natchez Trace follows along the path of the old road from Natchez to Nashville. Traveled by river men and thieves in the 1800’s, the two lane road now cuts through some of Mississippi’s most breathtaking countryside. My drive gave me time to decompress (since you can only drive 50 mph on it or Mr. Park Ranger will give you a hefty Federal ticket).  It also gave me time to think about some things in my life that were getting me down.

Life had recently thrown some pretty frustrating setbacks my way. I knew something had to change, but I didn’t know what. I also knew I couldn’t keep doing the same things over and over and expect different results. That’s the definition of insanity after all.  And I was about to go insane. After a while you have to conclude that your problems just might be caused by yourself. My ego was battered like a ping pong ball in a tornado. My life was adrift.

I like giant oak trees. I run past one every Saturday and find them to be inspiring spots for pondering  And about halfway between Jackson and Clinton, there’s a massive one on the edge of a huge plowed field.  I spotted it, pulled my car over and hiked toward it with an apple in hand. As I climbed through the barbed-wire fence, it seemed like a perfect spot to take a break.

I quickly got lost in my thoughts and the beautiful morning.

A rude shout jolted me back to reality.

“HEY! YOU! YOU AREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!”

The shouts came from an old pickup truck that had appeared on a dirt road about 25-yards to my West.

“I SAID, YOU ARE TRESPASSING!”

I must have missed the sign when I went through the fence. I sure missed the truck pulling up.

A man got out of the truck.  He wasn’t particularly tall but stood straight as an arrow. His snow white hair contrasted with his dark skin. Instead of brown eyes, he had the most vivid green irises. He could have been 60 or 90.  All I know is that he walked with a confidence that was hard to miss. And that confidence was coming toward me.

“I’m sorry,” I said apologetically. ” I just saw this tree and it looked like a good place to take a break.”

The man, seeing I wasn’t a poacher, axe murderer or thief, dropped his guard. He stuck out his hand and said, “My name is Ralph. This is my farm — and my tree. And you are right, it is a great place to take a break. It’s where I eat lunch when I’m out working.”

I offered him half my apple and he took a seat next to me. We talked for a few minutes and he started asking me a slew of questions. I, of course, told him my life story. Any more whine and I would have owned a vineyard.

He smiled and said, “You know, you sure are like me when I was your age.”  I was hoping he’d share when that was, but he didn’t.

“See this land? My father gave it to me. And his father to him and so on.  I started farming it when I was in my 20’s and I’ll be honest, it was a disaster.  Weeds, bugs, drought, rain, storms all killed the crops.  And I blamed everyone but myself.  I thought all I had to do was throw some seed out in the fertile soil and I’d reap an amazing crop. Sometimes I did. But most of the time, it was a failure. There were some years when the weeds grew higher than the corn.”

I nodded out of kindness, but not seeing the relevance, I was kind of lost. I’m dense like that sometimes.

“Anyway, one day I was under this very tree and had an epiphany. You do know what an epiphany is, don’t you?” I nodded and showed off my public education . He continued, “I began planning my farm and farming my plan.  I worked hard in the fields.  When I had a bumper crop, I saved for a bad year. Come on, I want to show you something.” He hit me on the back and we stood and walked to a corner of his field. There was a giant vegetable garden. “This, though, is when I truly became a successful farmer.”

I looked at the plot of land and kind of shrugged my shoulders.

“You know whose crops these are?”

I answered, “Yours?”

He chuckled, “Nah. They are the people’s in the nearby town. I donate a portion of my field for a community garden.  It’s a way to give my blessing back.To, as they say, pay it forward.”

I admired the plants coming up through the rich, dark soil.

But,not seeing the obvious message here, I said, “So what’s this all have to do with you succeeding?”

The farmer stood tall and said, “Your heavenly Father gave you a patch of land, too. It’s called life.  It’s fertile and you can grow any crop on it you want. But you’ve been like I was: You’ve been farming without a plan. Weeds like depression and laziness have taken your rich soil over. It’s time for you to clear your fields and start farming with a purpose. Have a plan. Weed your plot. Plant purposeful seeds. Save for a rainy day — because bad seasons will happen. But when they do, don’t blame outside factors for your woes. Praise the good and the bad. And most importantly, reserve some of your farm to help others. That’s why we’re here.”

He smiled as the lightbulb came on my head.

I’m not sure why traveled that way that day. But I have to believe it was to bump into Ralph the farmer. As we walked back to his truck and my car, he smiled and said, “Here’s my number. Next time you’re down this way, I’ll buy you lunch.”

I laughed and said, “Nah, I owe you.”

He smiled and said , “Hey, you’ve already given me half an apple. But just remember this — Plan your farm and farm your plan. And then you’ll grow an amazing crop.”

Being fat, dumb and happy is a defense mechanism. It’s a wonderful coat of naive armor that protects us from life’s random and cruel nature. We think we’re invincible. And the guaranteed fact that we are going to die seems to be safely locked away in some dusty corner of our minds.  We all think we are going to nod off one last time when we are 100.  That we’ll pass away in a peaceful, gentle way.

I wish life was that easy. But it’s not.

Now, I’m not trying to be depressing on a Monday morning.  I guess news that Mississippi attorney Precious Martin died suddenly yesterday from a four-wheeler accident is weighing on my mind.  (his son was also critically injured when the four-wheeler flipped several times).  I didn’t know Precious well, but I knew of him and his family. I knew he seemed to live life to the fullest.  His sudden death seems cruel.  It’s a chink in our naive armor of obliviousness.  And it has left many of us stunned.

Life is frail. Life is short. And life can be cruel.

I am in my mid-forties. My grandparents lived into their late 80’s and early 90’s.  I had gotten complacent about my life into my 30’s. Then cancer gave me a rude wake-up call. The awareness of my mortality walks along with me daily. It grips me and makes me appreciate weird things like sunrises and sunsets.

I could go now. In ten minutes. In a month. In five years. Or when I am 100. Thankfully we don’t know when our final breath will come.  I know I don’t want to know.

But what I do want to know, is that I have truly lived. That I did not waste this amazing gift we’ve been given.

My heartfelt prayers go out to the Martin family today. And may we honor his spirit by living our lives to the fullest.

I will remember Precious Martin’s life. And I will remember life is truly precious.